


Three Times Quinn Didn't Ask Eliot For Help + One Time He Didn't Have To Ask

by seraphina_snape



Category: Leverage
Genre: (and maybe lovers?), Banter, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Competence Porn, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hints of backstory, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Lock Picking, POV Multiple, Rescue, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape
Summary: What it says on the tin. Quinn definitely didn't ask for Eliot Spencer's help that first time... or the second, or the third (although that one was a bit of a special case). He might have asked for help the time after that, but it turned out he didn't have to. (Or: the story how Quinn turned from enemy to reluctant ally to ...friend?)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V_vulpes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_vulpes/gifts).



> To my recipient: I drew inspiration from your prompts and hope I managed to produce something that will make you smile. Happy Holidays! 
> 
> The M rating (and the violence warning) is for on-screen violence and descriptions of injuries and past violence, although I picked it mostly to be on the safe side. It's certainly not much worse than your average Eliot-centric hitter stuff.
> 
> I kept things pretty much gen, although it's definitely set up to be read as pre-Quinn/Eliot if you so desire. :D
> 
> As for the timeline, the first three sections are set between the first time we meet Quinn and the second time we meet him, while the +1 section is set after season five.
> 
> Many thanks to Fleurlb who looked this over and made it presentable. ♥
> 
> Edit 21/12/16: Added the fabulous header Telaryn made! :D

** 1 **

_I am going to kill Vassily,_ Quinn thought, not for the first time. Bad intel was worse than no intel at all.

Running his tongue over his teeth, he collected all the excess blood he could and spat it out onto the concrete floor. One more stain hardly made a difference to the décor - the walls and floor of his concrete cell were already decorated with countless stains of various origins. 

Quinn shifted a little, suppressing a wince at the sharp pain in his left shoulder. He couldn't tell if there were any cameras on him, but he had to assume there were. In other circumstances, he might have banked on it, playing up his injuries for the cameras in the hopes of being underestimated when they came in for the kill. But Quinn was pretty sure he'd permanently disabled at least three of the guys who'd dragged him into this cell, which meant any play he could make of his injuries wasn't likely to work. 

Quietly taking stock of the situation, Quinn had to admit to himself that it didn't look good. He was chained up with metal shackles, one on each wrist, attached to the wall, and a double shackle that chained his ankles to a metal hook in the floor. Apart from the pain in his shoulder, he had an extensive collection of developing cuts and bruises as well as a stab wound in his right side. 

A sound outside his cell made Quinn tense imperceptibly. The door creaked open, and Quinn balled his hands into useless fists. A second later he forced his hands to open and his heart to calm down. There were stains in the cell, but not nearly enough to suggest they were used for executions. Maybe these guys were old school and would drive him down to the river. Quinn grinned a little, feeling the cut on his lip start to bleed again. As long as they took him out of this cell, his chances weren't too bad.

But when he finally looked up at the man who'd opened his cell, Quinn felt a whisper of unease. 

"Spencer," Quinn said. "You're… not what I expected."

Eliot Spencer didn't have much of a reason for a show of goodwill towards him. The last time they'd met, Quinn had broken the man's ribs.

"Quinn," Spencer said. He tilted his head a little. "I'll be there in two; I'm just checking the basement before we wrap this up."

"Now what?" Quinn asked. It was the closest he could get to asking for help. Either he was gonna owe Spencer for cutting him loose (in which case he wouldn't be able to stand actually having _asked_ for help from the man), or he'd end up waiting for the cops to show up. The second option wouldn't exactly be a favor, but it was still preferable to how thing were going for him earlier.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, but his tense posture relaxed a little. "Now you can owe me one."

#

Eliot felt along the rim of his black knit hat and extracted the short length of wire concealed in the yarn. He knelt down on one knee and slipped the bent wire into the lock of one of Quinn's wrist shackles.

He was no Parker, but any hitter knew how to get out of a pair of cuffs with a paperclip. This lock was more primitive than a modern handcuff, but the broad metal band encasing the wrist was welded to a metal plate that was screwed into the wall. Quinn, Eliot suspected, had his own piece of wire hidden in a seam of his suit jacket, or maybe in one of his shoes, but with his wrists fixed to the wall, he couldn't get to it, much less use it even if he had it in his fingers.

Once Quinn's right wrist was free, Eliot moved on to the man's ankles, trusting that Quinn could take care of his left wrist himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quinn bring his wrist to his face. 

The wire was hidden in the band of his watch – clever, and easy to get to with his left if his hands were cuffed together. 

Quinn lifted a corner of his mouth in an approximation of a smile. Blood glistened on his teeth and lips. "No hard feelings, right?"

Eliot didn't reply. He wanted to punch Quinn's teeth in for helping Sterling against them, but he was aware that was a kneejerk reaction that wouldn't help any. Quinn was the hired gun. It wasn't personal. Sure, it had felt personal with the guy's fist in his gut, but ultimately Quinn hadn't been after him, personally. A job was a job, and Eliot could understand that. 

He didn't have to like it though.

The double shackle at Quinn's ankles opened with a quiet _snick_ and Eliot stood up.

"Cops will be here in four minutes." 

Quinn nodded, rubbing his wrists. Apart from the split lip and the visible bruising, the only wound Eliot could see was indicated by a spot of blood on his side. It wasn't bleeding anymore, and even taking into account any bruising hiding under the clothes, Quinn should be good to go.

"After you," Quinn drawled, still sitting on the floor. 

Eliot wanted to roll his eyes – like he'd bother to cut Quinn lose first if he was here to do him harm – but he couldn't deny that he'd done that before. Gained someone's trust, no matter how fleeting, before he stabbed them in the back. So he just nodded and left, heading down the corridor at a brisk pace, checking the other cells for occupants. 

A few minutes later, as Lucille rounded the corner at the end of the block, Eliot saw a shadow slip into an alleyway just as the cops arrived down the street. He felt not _relief_ that Quinn was unharmed, but perhaps a bit of professional pride. As far as hitters went, Quinn was one of the best, and knowing that Quinn owed him was not a bad feeling.

** 2 **

"This is not a bad location." Hardison raised his phone and slowly turned in a circle, taking a 360° picture. "And Moe's always at church this time on Sundays."

"Great," Eliot grumbled. "So we only have to get our mark here before eight on a Sunday, help him find the priceless antique car that – by the way! – we haven't organized yet, and then get him out of the place before… what?"

"Nine-thirty." Hardison shrugged. "I have a lead on a handful of cars in the area that might fit our profile. We could be ready next Sunday."

Eliot shook his head. One week to find, steal and take apart a classic car, and then make it look like it'd been rotting away in a scrapyard for twenty years. They'd have to get whats-his-name away from the scrapyard early, or they wouldn't be able to hide the car for the mark to find. 

Hardison gave him an apologetic look. "This _is_ the best location, man. Few houses on this road, far enough outside the city that we won't attract too much attention with the trailer, and there's enough space to set everything up." He held up a finger. "Plus: no dogs."

Eliot gave a grudging nod. The last three places they'd looked at had watch dogs. Thankfully the owner of this little scrapyard was allergic. "Okay, let's find a place where we can put our car. I want our move-in day to go as smoothly as possible."

Hardison wandered down towards the center of the scrapyard. Herding people was easy enough – you just had to make sure they only had one way available. Eliot made a few mental notes to shift some of the scrap metal into barriers – not obvious ones, of course, but if they made it look like some of the stacks had collapsed and were now blocking the way… Eliot nodded to himself. It could work. 

Eliot caught movement out of the corner of his eyes. Hardison was still ahead of him, so it couldn't have been him. Slowing his pace a little, Eliot focused on the end of the next aisle of scrap heaps. 

Cursing inwardly, Eliot sped up his steps and caught up with Hardison just as he reached the center of the scrapyard. A large baling press in gunmetal grey was set up straight ahead. It was at least as old as the scrapyard, with large patches of rust showing at the corners. It still worked, though, as evidenced by the large cubes of metal sitting next to it in an orderly stack. A dirty yellow crane with clamps at the end of its arm was parked next to them.

"Hardison," he said quietly, his tone immediately drawing Hardison's attention. "We've got company."

Hardison frowned and swiped his finger over his smart phone. "Aw, man. They cut the cameras. And after I went through all the trouble of setting up the loop. But hang on, maybe I can--" Hardison made a triumphant sound and turned the smart phone around. 

On the small screen, Eliot could see the view from their car, parked in a blind spot behind the scrapyard. 

"That one's ex-military," Eliot said, pointing to one of the men. It looked like they were gathering in the blind spot until they go word from the guys at the gate that the cameras were out. "The others aren't. Rent-a-cops, probably."

"Hmm." Hardison took his phone back, his fingers flying over the screen. "Facial recognition says that's Gerald Oswald, forty-seven, head of security for Birch Technologies. They have a production site four miles north of here."

"Well," Eliot said, "they're not here for us, so that means--"

He turned, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, seeing someone step out from between the heaps of scrap metal. 

Fitted suit, powder blue dress shirt, dark blue tie. 

Quinn.

"Yep," Quinn said, a smile playing on his lips. "That is my party, boys."

#

"I'm not sure why the two of you are here," Quinn continued, "but if it's not too pressing, I'd suggest coming back another time."

The geek – Hardison, almost twenty-four, genius-level smart, no living blood relatives – threw him a glance and then dismissed him. Quinn felt a little affronted, but considering their last fight had ended with a win for Spencer, and adding to that the fact that he owed Spencer from their last meeting almost nine months ago, it wasn't an unreasonable reaction. 

"There are twenty-eight security guards currently on duty at Birch Technologies, and ten of them are the minimum crew. That means at least eighteen are chasing after you," Hardison said. 

Quinn shrugged, his face impassive even though he was the tiniest bit impressed they'd already identified his mark. "I can take them. They're rent-a-cops with guns." He waved his hand dismissively. "Sure, they _will_ shoot me if they get the chance, but their primary focus is probably handing me over to the cops. After they take back--well. After they take something back from me."

Spencer's gaze traveled down Quinn's body, settling on the slight bulge in his inner jacket pocket. Quinn resisted the urge to shift his stance and conceal the package. Spencer had already singled it out among the various weapons he carried – Quinn wouldn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

"Your window is closing," he said instead, drawing the focus away from his job and the hard drive burning a hole in his pocket. "This isn't your fight."

Spencer shrugged. "Might as well be. The location is useless for our next job now, and three of these guys are sitting on our car. I don't think they'll believe us when we say we're just innocent bystanders."

"Oswald just sent someone at Birch Technologies a text saying 'we're going in'. Where does he think he is, the set of Lethal Weapon?"

Spencer met his eyes and Quinn raised his eyebrows. Spencer nodded.

"Which way's your car?"

"West," Spencer replied. "Camera blind spot. Before these guys cut the cameras."

"Except we've got a dash cam and a nice view of two thirds of the fence on the western side," Hardison added. 

"Nice," Quinn admitted. His own car – well, the car he'd stolen for this job – was parked in the employee parking lot of Birch Technologies. Things hadn't worked out the way he'd planned, so he'd had to make his escape on foot. He'd hoped to steal a car here at the scrapyard, but found it empty. Of course, as soon as the security team had shown up, his plan had switched to stealing one of their SUVs to make it to the nearest town and exchange it for something less likely to be fitted with a lo-jack.

"Hey, Hardison, can you make this thing go?" Spencer slapped the side of the crane.

A slow grin came across Hardison's face. He shrugged out of his jacket and held it out to Spencer. "Switch?"

They exchanged jackets, Hardison slipping on Spencer shorter, but more obviously a working man's jacket. 

It wasn't a bad plan – assuming their plan was to use Hardison as bait. Quinn decided to make himself useful and cracked the lock on the crane. Inside the small cabin was a dinted and more gray than white hardhat and an orange safety vest. He took both down with him and handed them off to Hardison. 

"This is so cool, man," Hardison breathed. 

Quinn raised his eyebrows, meeting Spencer's eyes. For a moment, they were on the same wavelength. 

"Just get to it," Spencer grumbled. He crossed over to the metal press and started hitting buttons while Hardison climbed up into the crane and sat down, bouncing a little in his seat. Shaking his head, Quinn turned away from them, only to have Spencer touch his arm.

He turned back, muscles tensing. But Spencer didn't attack. Instead, he gave Quinn a long, measured stare and said, "No guns."

The protest was on the tip of his tongue almost automatically – guns were the quickest and easiest solution. It wasn't like any of them had to stay there for the clean-up.

"No guns," Spencer repeated, "or we'll take you down along with them."

Quinn felt his hackles rise at that blatant threat – especially since Spencer was still touching him – but he could understand the man's position. It wasn't like they'd planned to be here, caught in the middle of one of Quinn's jobs. 

"Well, it's not like these guys will be much of a challenge," he said, forced nonchalance in his voice.

Spencer relaxed his shoulders and let go of Quinn's arm, heading towards the metal press. Quinn took a deep breath and shook off the unsettling feeling of having left something unfinished. 

It took a couple of false starts before Hardison managed to control the crane's arm, but once he got it, he made short work of barricading one of the aisles with the blocks of pressed metal and another two with heaps of scrap. He dropped an armful of metal into the open press, leaving Spencer – who had found himself a second hardhat somewhere – to start it. With his torn jeans, his plaid flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and his sturdy boots, he looked every bit the part of a scrapyard worker – certainly more than Quinn would in his suit.

It didn't take long for the first guys to show up, led by a tall guy with a crooked jaw and an even more crooked nose. Gerald Oswald, Birch Technologies' head of security. He might be a challenge, but Quinn dismissed the rest of these guys immediately. Three were holding their guns like they'd never fired one, and Quinn could see one of them shaking from where he lay in ambush. 

At the metal press, Spencer looked up and started gesticulating. He walked towards the nine men with his arms waving while Hardison continued to shift scrap.

Quinn couldn't hear what Spencer was saying, but he could imagine. Casting one last look down the next aisle – empty – Quinn rolled his shoulders and walked up behind the group. Spencer caught his eye and nodded, his fist snapping out without warning and catching Oswald in the nose. 

Quinn kicked the nearest guy in the back of the knees, grinning when his fall brought down the one in front of him. He moved on to the next guy, catching his wrist before he could bring up his gun. A quick jab to the solar plexus had him bent over, and Quinn shoved him back, making him stumble into one of his colleagues. 

Something made Quinn look up and he saw Spencer send a guy his way. Quinn took him out with a punch behind the ear and then swung around to kick one more into the chest. 

And that was it. Eight guys plus Oswald, all down for the count. Leaving at least nine more walking the perimeter to make sure nobody slipped through. 

Hardison placed a few more blocks of metal, leaving the only one way free, and then climbed out of the crane, carrying a pair of bolt cutters. "Come on, let's go!"

They set off at a steady jog, slowing down once they reached the fence. Quinn could see two guys pacing the length of the fence. Right now, they were on each corner, turning back to walk to the other side. 

Hardison quickly cut a hole into the fence and pulled the mesh inwards.

"Up," Spencer commanded. "On my mark, Hardison."

Hardison nodded and started climbing the nearest scrap heap, cursing under his breath whenever something shifted under his hands or feet. 

"Hardison!"

With a loud crash, Hardison set the top of the scrap heap down on the other side, alerting the two security guards that something was up. It didn't pose much of a challenge to wait behind a broken car door and clock them once they were close enough.

Quinn followed Spencer and Hardison to their car and slipped into the backseat without a word.

He got out at a red light once they were in the city, sliding out of the car without a word of thanks. As far as he was concerned, Spencer and Hardison had invited themselves to the party – he would have been fine without them, so he definitely didn't owe them for this one.

** 3 **

Quinn had timed it perfectly.

He stepped off the elevator on the forty-eighth floor just as the CEO's secretary left her office, heading away from him down the hallway. Flicking through a stack of files he'd snatched off a desk two floors down, Quinn kept his eyes down and sped up his steps. He entered the outer office without pause, dropping the files in the trash can by the door. 

The CEO's office was easily three times as large as the secretary's office, a large ebony desk sitting at one end and a seating arrangement with a plush dark green couch and two matching armchairs at the other. Decorations were sparse, but the artwork on the walls was real. 

Quinn let out a quiet whistle at the sight of a Degas. It wasn't really the kind of style he'd expected in an office like this. He almost wished he'd brought a few more tools even though one of his personal rules was no side-business on a job. 

The item he was supposed to retrieve, a gold coin, was in a glass case mounted on the wall behind the desk. The case was locked, but otherwise unsecure. It was child's play to take the heavy marble paperweight off the desk and break the case, snatching the coin from its perch as splinters of glass rained down on the floor. Of course, he could have picked the lock, but breaking the case felt much more satisfying, and if the client didn't demand discretion, Quinn didn't see a reason to deny himself this simple pleasure.

He slipped the coin into a small cotton pouch and pulled the drawstring tight. It was long enough that he could tie it around his neck, slipping the little pouch underneath his shirt. 

Quinn adjusted his window-glass glasses and straightened his tie. According to his watch, he had twenty-four more seconds until the secretary would make her way back from her coffee run, blocking off his escape. Technically, he had contingency plans in case he couldn't just walk out the door, but going out the window had never been a particular favorite of his. 

He was ten steps from the office when the break room door opened, and the secretary made her trek back to the office. 

He'd just entered the elevator when he saw two security guards jogging around the corner towards the elevators, one of them holding his radio. 

Quinn allowed himself to close his eyes for a second before he pressed the button for the next floor. Elevators were a bad place to get cornered, especially with a stolen coin around your neck. He exited the elevator, thankful that security hadn't reached this one yet, and headed towards the door for the staircase around the corner, keeping an eye out for anyone in a uniform. Around him, people were starting to lean over and around their cubicle walls to whisper to each other. He caught the word lockdown and growled under his breath. 

The staircase was empty and Quinn fell into a light jog, taking the stairs two or three at a time, using the railing to propel himself around the corner to the next flight. He was on the thirteenth floor when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a security team entering the staircase. Heavy boots, the cackle of static from the radios, the rhythmic drum of several sets of feet starting up the stairs.

Quinn slowed to a stop and eased the door to the next floor open. The elevators were around the corner, the layout of this floor mirroring the layout of every other floor in the building. Quinn cursed inwardly when he peeked around the corner and saw two security officers standing next to the elevators. 

Quinn didn't know what had triggered the alarm and subsequent lockdown. He was relatively sure it hadn't been him - there were no cameras in the CEO's office, and nobody could have discovered the theft that quickly, especially since the secretary had no reason to go into her boss' office. But even if the lockdown was unrelated, it didn't exactly help him get out of the building. He'd snagged the employee ID on his belt from a middle-aged black woman he'd passed on one of the upper floors on his way up to retrieve the coin - even a cursory check would show it clearly wasn't his. Unless he wanted to fight his way through every security guard from here to the exit, he had to switch plans. 

Taking a few short, panting breaths, Quinn tugged his shirt out of his pants on one side and ran a hand over his head, his fingers plucking at his hair until his short ponytail was sure to look less-than-professional.

He rounded the corner at a half-sprint, waving at the security officers. "Quick!" He pointed back the way he'd come. "He's in the men's room!" 

The security officers exchanged a look and sprinted past Quinn. He followed them into the men's room, catching the first one in the face with his elbow as he flew past him to knock the other one into the nearest wall. 

It wasn't a fair fight. These guys were amateurs. The most exciting things in their work life probably consisted of catching people who stole office supplies and trying to spot anyone who was picking their nose on the security monitors. 

Quinn made quick work of stripping the shorter of the men. The uniform shirt was a little loose on him, but between the belt and the jacket, it was hardly noticeable. He took both tasers - they were still holstered - and one radio, taking the batteries out of the second one. He also confiscated the men's cell phones. 

Whatever was going on, if there was security on the elevators on the 12th floor, there would be security on the elevators in the lobby and on all other floors, including the basement garage. With a sigh, Quinn pulled the security guard's cap low into his face and went back into the staircase.

He made his way down the stairs as fast as he could. There was no way to predict how long the two guys he'd knocked out would be unconscious, but the moment they woke up and found a phone, every guard in the place would be on the lookout for a man in a uniform. 

The lobby was a circus. 

Employees waiting to go home were crowding the reception area, with more coming down in the elevators. Security officers were stationed at the doors. Three of the double doors were locked, leaving only one doorway open to funnel people through. 

This so-called lockdown was a lot less stringent than some Quinn had seen, but the security officers were diligent in checking employee IDs against their databank and searching through everyone's pockets and bags. Quinn wasn't sure if those measures would be applied to any security officers trying to get outside, but he had to chance it. If push came to shove, he could punch out whoever was in his way and run for it. His car was parked a few streets down and he could probably outrun these guys. 

Two steps later, Quinn caught a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing Parker slowly inching her way past the crowd. 

Quinn let out a sharp breath. If Ford and his crew were here, that meant they'd caused the alarm. Probably on purpose. 

Grinning a little, Quinn adapted his plan. It was their mess. They'd cut off his exit, so they really ought to provide him with a new one. Whatever Parker was up to, Quinn intended to be in on it.

As unobtrusively as he could, Quinn moved through the crowd. Just as he reached Parker, another security officer got there from the other side. Their eyes met - it was Eliot Spencer. 

Quinn groaned. 

"What are you doing here?" Spencer growled. 

"I _was_ working, until you messed up my exit!"

"You're messing up our exit right now," Parker pointed out. 

Quinn gave her an unimpressed look. "How will I live with myself," he drawled. 

Parker glared at him. "You need to leave."

"Not gonna happen, sweetheart."

"Whatever you want us to do, Nate, make it a quick decision," Eliot said, his eyes sliding past Quinn. 

Quinn shifted just enough that he could see two security guards approach their position. "Well, looks like you got two choices here. We play nice and walk out the front door together, or I'm taking you down with me."

Parker and Eliot exchanged a look, and Quinn recognized their expression as the one they wore when they were listening to instructions coming in via the comms. Whatever Ford was telling them, Quinn had no intention of letting them make their play unless he was in on it.

#

"Fine, whatever, take Quinn with you, but get out now," Nate said over the comms. In the background, Eliot could hear him gunning an engine. 

Eliot sighed. 

"Well." Parker shrugged. "We probably did cut off his exit with the lockdown. And it'll work with two guards, too."

Quinn's smile held a dangerous edge to it. "So, what's the plan?"

Before Eliot could answer, the two security guard that had been making their way over reached them. 

"Good thing you're here," he said. He nodded towards Parker. "We caught this one without a valid ID. She's not in the database." When he glanced back at Parker, Quinn had his hand wrapped around her upper arm, his other hand resting on his taser. "I've already called it in; Masterson said they alerted the authorities. We're supposed to take her outside so she can be taken into custody. But the lockdown is still in effect - every ID gets checked until we're sure she doesn't have any accomplices."

Eliot met Quinn's eyes. Quinn nodded slightly, turning on his heel. "Come on, off to the county jail with you."

Parker's struggle against his hold wasn't real, but Eliot wasn't so sure about the glare she sent Quinn's way. Quinn didn't seem fazed by it; he continued marching her towards the door at a steady speed. It was not too fast, not too slow - exactly the speed Eliot had automatically fallen into to avoid suspicion. 

They were almost at the door when every radio in the lobby crackled with a burst of static until a slightly frantic voice called out, "Attention all guards." 

Quinn tensed imperceptibly, but it was enough of a warning for Eliot. He listened to the call with one ear, but he didn't need to hear the announcement of two guards having been found unconscious and stripped of their uniforms in a 12th floor bathroom to know their exit was about to close. 

Eliot was moving before the announcement was over, striking out towards the nearest guard. The satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage under his knuckles made him grin. Maybe it made him a bad person to enjoy this part of the job - the brawling, the fighting - but all of them enjoyed their work. His just included a little more violence. 

Beside him, Parker let out a sharp laugh and used a stolen taser on one of the guards. Behind her, Quinn shouldered one guard out of the way and grabbed the next one's wrist, yanking him close enough to elbow him in the face. 

Between them, Parker had gotten a hold of two tasers. She was grinning like a maniac as she fired both, hitting the two guards closest to the door. 

Quinn met Eliot's eyes, returning Eliot's exasperated look with a slightly disturbed one of his own. 

"Twenty seconds," Nate said over the comms. "Are you outside yet?"

"Come on," Eliot yelled, slapping the nearest taser out of Parker's hands. On her other side, Quinn grabbed her wrist and pulled, dragging her to the exit. He pushed Parker through the door first, following her as she ran straight ahead towards the street. Eliot took his hand cuffs - part of the uniform - and put the first cuff around one door handle before closing the second one around the other handle, effectively blocking anyone from opening the door. It would buy them a few more seconds while the guards fumbled to unlock one of the other doors.

"Spencer!"

Eliot didn't hesitate. He ran straight for the cop car that had pulled up at the curb. Parker was already in the backseat, and Eliot could see Hardison in the passenger seat, his laptop open on his knees. If everything else had gone according to plan, he was redirecting the police and downloading whatever info Masterson was trying to erase from the company computers right about now. 

Quinn slid into the backseat as Eliot approached, leaving the door open. 

Eliot flung himself into his seat, losing his balance as Nate peeled off down the street before Eliot's door was fully closed. A hand on his arm kept him from tumbling back out of the car at the first corner, and Eliot closed the car door with a firm yank once the car had righted itself. 

Quinn let go of his arm. 

"Thanks." 

Quinn nodded his acknowledgement and sat back, his hand coming up to check on something hidden under his shirt. 

Once they were a few streets over, Nate switched off the flashing lights and slowed down, cruising along. He cast a glance over his shoulder. "Picking up strays?" he asked Eliot.

"Don't worry, "Eliot said, feeling an unexpected pang at his words even as he was saying them. "We're not keeping him."

If Quinn felt the same inexplicable disappointment, he didn't let it show. He smirked. "You couldn't afford to keep me."

Eliot snorted, and then they were both chuckling.

** +1 **

Quinn clapped his hands, attracting the attention of everyone huddled in the small hallway. "Okay, let's play a little game!" He kept his voice low, non-threatening, but his lips wouldn't quirk into the smile he'd been aiming for. He settled for a calm but serious expression. "I need you all to be really quiet and follow me, all right? Can you do that?"

Quinn let himself lean against the wall, just for a bit, taking the weight off his injured leg. His head was throbbing like someone had taken a pipe to it - it had been a glass bottle, but same difference - and his vision was just blurry enough to make him think he had at least a mild concussion. 

A small hand tugging at his sleeve brought him back into the moment. He blinked and pushed off from the wall. He could rest later. For now, he still had a job to do.

The small child in front of him looked up at him with serious eyes and started talking. It took a moment for Quinn to listen past his headache and figure out that he couldn't understand much of it because it wasn't English. His Mandarin was practically non-existent, with the exception of a few choice words and phrases he'd learned the last time he'd had a job in China. He did catch what he thought was 'help' and 'please'. 

Quinn nodded. "Yes, I'm gonna help you, okay? But we need to be really quiet." He put his finger to his lips. "Shhh. Quiet." 

"Quiet?" the little boy repeated, the word clearly unfamiliar to him. 

Quinn nodded, breathing through the wave of nausea that followed the motion. Maybe his concussion wasn't so mild. 

The boy said something to the other kids, and they all nodded and turned back to Quinn. 

"Okay." His hand brushed over the gun in the holster at the small of his back - it was empty, completely useless to him right now, but the familiar weight of it was comforting. He looked down at the kids. Seven scared but hopeful faces looked back at him. 

The thing about being a hitter was that you had to have a code, a handbook, a set of rules that were set in stone. Everybody had a line they didn't cross, jobs they didn't take. 

He knew one guy who refused to take any jobs where a dog might get harmed, another who would do anything except work in Palestine, and another who could acquire just about any work of art but refused to steal anything from the era of German Romanticism. 

Quinn's own rules weren't as clear-cut. He'd done things he tried not to think about too much in the light of day, things that would have people call him monster and killer and a lot of other things if they knew. He didn't have a no kids rule as such - he'd kidnapped kids to blackmail their parents. He'd accepted the fact that occasionally his jobs resulted in collateral damage, and that collateral damage was a sanitized way of saying sometimes innocent people - kids - ended up hurt or dead as a result of something he'd done. Quinn tried to avoid jobs like that - they weren't much fun, and he usually had a hard time looking at himself in the mirror afterwards. 

He had never taken a job where the objective was to hurt - or kill - a kid.

And he wasn't about to start now.

"Follow me," he said, motioning with his hand. 

The little boy who seemed to have elected himself leader of the kids nodded and grabbed the next kid's hand. 

Quinn cracked the door at the end of the short hallway and listened. He didn't hear anything but the quiet breathing of seven children and his own somewhat labored breaths, so he slowly inched the door open, peering out into the darkness beyond the doorway. 

He'd come in through the chop shop - a rundown garage down by the docks - to meet with the guy in charge to discuss the terms of this job. Jian had led him down to the basement where seven children sat lined up in actual cages. The job, Jian had said, was to deliver a bloody message to each of his seven rivals in town, by way of slaughtering their children. 

Quinn didn't know why Jian didn't have one of his own guys do it, and he didn't much care. Once the loud rushing of blood in his ears had died down, he'd approached the first cage, his hand trailing over the work table set up in the middle of the room. The boy in the cage had flinched back, and the light had played over his face, highlighting the purple bruise on his cheek and the dried blood in the corner of his mouth. Quinn's fingers had bumped into a large, heavy wrench and before he'd had time to think about it too much, he'd grabbed the wrench and thrown it in Jian's face. 

Jian had gone down with a quiet moan, blood bubbling out of his mouth and nose. The seven guys standing around the room had been stunned enough that Quinn had managed to take one of them out without a fight, but then the others had shaken off their surprise and attacked. Quinn had tried to draw their fire to the back of the room even if it meant boxing himself in - they clearly hadn't cared about the cages sitting in the line of fire. He'd won - six against one wasn't bad odds for someone like him - but it had come at a price. Namely the concussion, the dried blood on the back of his head, the bullet in his calf and the sprained wrist. 

Opening the cages had taken up precious minutes. He couldn't go out through the chop shop, not without Jian, not with these kids, not looking like he did. Nobody had come looking, which made Quinn assume the basement was soundproof, but sooner or later someone would notice that Jian hadn't come back upstairs. So he'd taken the kids and walked the other way, trusting - hoping - that a man like Jian had picked a headquarters with more than one exit.

Quinn didn't bother with finding a light switch. From the way his steps echoed silently in the room, it was large. Maybe a factory, or one of the large warehouses along the dock. They hadn't gone far, just through two small rooms, one long hallway and the short hallway where Quinn had taken a moment to push his pain aside. They had to be in one of the buildings surrounding the chop shop. 

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Dim light was coming in through dirty windows set high up in the walls. Large shadows loomed out of the semi-darkness. 

"Come on," he whispered, waving at the kids to follow him.

He stumbled several times, leaving an uneven trail of blood in his wake. The wet patch on his lower leg grew larger and larger with each step, and Quinn could feel every beat of his heart pulse uncomfortably in his head. 

They found a door to the side of a loading dock. It was locked, but old and rusty. It took four kicks to the lock for the door to swing open, creaking and groaning after years of disuse. Quinn's calf was on fire by the time he herded the kids outside. He wasn't sure if it was the concussion or the time he'd spent in the semi-darkness of the warehouse, but the bright glare of the streetlamp outside sent stabs of pain through his skull. 

They needed transportation. His own rental was parked across from the chop shop and he wasn't sure he still had the keys. Not that he _needed_ keys to start a car.

"This way," he said, heading for the nearest corner of the warehouse. He wasn't familiar enough with the docks to know which way he was going, but from the layout of the warehouse and the look of the building on the other side of the alley they were in, they should be heading away from the water and away from the chop shop. 

Something touched his hand and Quinn startled, realizing with a cold rush of fear that he hadn't been paying attention. This time it was one of the kids, seeking comfort by taking his hand. But the combination of his injuries, especially the concussion, meant he was losing his focus as well as the ability to fight. They needed to get out of the danger zone. 

Somewhere a door slammed open and angry shouts traveled through the night. Quinn stumbled. Someone must have gone down to the basement and discovered the bloodbath, or one of the guys hadn't been quite dead yet and managed to raise the alarm. Either way, they were fucked. 

They had nearly reached the corner when the sound of a car engine reached Quinn's ears. It wasn't coming from behind, so either Jian's men had figured out their escape route and gone to cut them off, or it was someone unrelated to them. Either way, it forced Quinn into action. 

"Get behind me," he ordered, shaking off the girl's hand to push her behind him. He didn't have any weapons, but he'd been in worse situations and come out on top. 

A black van came around the corner, fast enough that Quinn barely managed to stumble out in front of it. Or maybe he was moving too slowly, his movements sluggish and his brain lagging behind. It didn't matter, though, because the driver stepped on the brakes and brought the van to a squealing stop about two feet from Quinn.

Although he felt like collapsing, Quinn balled his hands into fists and squared his shoulders. If he was going to go down, he'd do it standing up.

"What the hell were you thinking?" The driver's door opened and a tall guy got out, waving his arms as he ranted. "You stepped out into the street! Who does that, man? I could have killed you! You're so lucky my baby gets the best mechanical care and, like, all of the extras. Without the brand new brakes, you would have been toast!"

He looked familiar, but Quinn couldn't make the connection. He couldn't even focus on the man's face. He didn't know if it was the darkness or the concussion, but all he could see was the swimming image of short cropped black hair and the gleam of white teeth. 

Quinn felt himself slipping, like he was falling even though his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. The world swayed, or maybe he did.

He felt a hand against his back, warm and strong. 

"Stop yammering and get everyone into the car!" someone commanded.

Quinn knew the voice. The aggravated but fond tone, the slight Southern lilt. 

Eliot Spencer.

With that thought, Quinn stopped trying to hold on to consciousness and everything went black.

#

It was at the same time better and worse than what Eliot had expected. They didn't have to fight their way through a bunch of Chinese mobsters to find Quinn, but Quinn looked like he'd already done all the fighting and won, but barely. 

Eliot was out of the van moments after Hardison, his heart still pounding from the near-collision after Quinn stepped out in front of Lucille. He looked like he was about to collapse, dried blood matting a good part of his hair, and a still wet patch spreading on his leg. 

Quinn's eyes were unfocused. He looked at Eliot without seeing him, his pupils uneven. 

"Stop yammering and get everyone in the car!" Eliot sent Hardison a glare to underline his words, but then Quinn slumped against him, eyes closed, and Eliot shifted to accommodate the extra weight. 

"Shit," Hardison cursed. He grabbed Quinn's arm, taking some of the weight off Eliot. "He looks rough."

"Concussion," Eliot said. "He's been shot, too."

"Yeah, I can see that." Hardison rolled his eyes. "So, how about we get out of here?"

"Good plan," Parker called. She had all the kids in the van already, but her attention was on the other end of the alley. A quick glance showed the flicker of flashlights against the walls and Eliot nodded. 

"On three," he said, catching Hardison's eyes. Hardison grinned. 

"Three," they said in unison, lifting Quinn. They carried him into the van. 

Parker slipped past them into the driver's seat. 

Eliot braced himself against the wall, his arms locked around Quinn's chest. The last thing Quinn needed was another knock to the head, and with Parker at the wheel that was a distinct possibility. 

"Hold on," he said to the kids. 

They giggled at his rusty pronunciation, but the giggles turned into yelps after Parker took the first corner. Eliot grinned a little as the kids scrambled to grab onto anything they could reach - one of them grabbed Hardison, wrapping her small arms around his middle with a startled cry. Hardison looked a little stunned, his wide eyes cutting over to Eliot. 

"Hey, don't look at me; I've got my arms full." 

It didn't take long to reach the Brew Pub, even with the circuitous route Parker took. Hardison helped him carry Quinn upstairs, and while Eliot cracked open his big first aid kit, Parker entertained the kids and Hardison tracked down their parents and set up a meeting.

It didn't take too much for Parker to convince the other families in the area to take down the rest of Jian's operation, especially not once one of the kids started talking. Quinn's name fell several times, but Eliot wasn't fluid enough to catch most of it. The papers would report the incident as a turf war, and Eliot was relatively sure that Quinn's involvement wouldn't make it as far as China. 

It was a long night.

Back at the Brew Pub, Eliot checked on Quinn's injuries and then settled into a chair in the corner of the room. He hated waking up in unfamiliar surroundings after a bad night, and he would bet Quinn was the same. And, he mused, Quinn was likely to do something rash, like try and escape out the window, in his sleep-muddled, concussed state. 

Eliot slept for a bit, did some stretches and then meditated. He opened his eyes when he heard the rustling of the duvet. 

Quinn was awake, sitting up against the headboard and looking clearer than he probably felt. Eliot knew the feeling, and he'd worked through enough concussions to know Quinn wouldn't be able to keep it up for too long.

"Pain killers." He nodded at the bedside table. "The bread's yours, if you want it."

Quinn kept his eyes on Eliot for a second longer, suspicious warring with pain and fatigue. He took the two pills and swallowed them down with a gulp of water. He sipped the rest of the glass and then picked up the small plate of bread. He took a bite, chewing carefully. 

"Good bread," he commented, taking another bite. "I heard you could cook. Didn't know you could also bake."

Eliot snorted. "There are a lot of things I can do that you don't know about."

Quinn hummed. "Like, show up at the docks in the middle of the night."

"You weren't complaining at the time."

"I'm not complaining now." Quinn put the bread down. "But how did you even know where to find me? Or that I--" 

Quinn cut himself off, like he didn't want to admit he needed the help. Eliot huffed. "What, you think Hardison isn't tracking you anytime you step foot inside the state?" 

Quinn's brow furrowed and his hands shifted on the blanket, like he was preparing to throw it off and run, no matter how sick he still felt. 

"Not like that," Eliot added. "It's--He tracks us, too. Parker, Sophie, Nate and me. A few others we've worked with." Like Tara, and Hurley, and Peggy, and Cha0s (although that wasn't Hardison keeping track of someone he considered family - that was Hardison keeping track of his, in his own words, 'arch nemesis'). 

"But I'm not one of you."

"Aren't you?" Eliot paused, looking down at Quinn. "When we picked you up, you were in the process of taking on the local triad all by yourself. And for what? A handful of kids you didn't even know."

Quinn closed his eyes, and Eliot suspected it had more to do with the conversation than Quinn's concussion.

"That's how it started for us, you know. Nate - he got under our skin, into our heads. And we just kept coming back for more because--" Eliot stopped, not sure how to explain it. 

"It's the same." Quinn sounded tired, but very much awake at the same time. "The rush, the chance to bust some heads open - but better, like it's more, somehow. Like it matters."

"Yeah."

They fell silent, Quinn with his head resting against the headboard, eyes half-lidded, and Eliot sitting in the armchair in the corner, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame. 

Then Quinn cleared his throat, straightening up a little. "I have a feeling I might be needing a new job once word gets out." He raised his eyes, meeting Eliot's gaze. "What's the job market in Portland like these days? Any openings for a hitter with a diverse skill set and a growing appreciation for team work?"

Eliot grinned. "I think we can work something out."

**Author's Note:**

> Things I googled for this fic:  
> \- metal press  
> \- several phrases in Mandarin Chinese that I ended up not using because I hate it when people use my first language in fics and manage to do everything wrong  
> \- "is oklahoma in the midwest or the south"  
> \- concussion symptoms  
> \- Chinese names (I felt super overwhelmed so I just picked one at random and hoped it was at least a somewhat plausible name)  
> ______________
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


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